


fever of the bone

by kalimero



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: F/F, Female Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Magic, Rare Pairings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:20:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21992080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalimero/pseuds/kalimero
Summary: They don't have to pretend around each other. Not anymore.
Relationships: Yennefer of Vengerberg/Sabrina Glevissig
Comments: 14
Kudos: 71





	fever of the bone

No contact possible to flesh  
Allayed the fever of the bone.

– **t. s. eliot** , _whispers of immortality_

.

“What do you want?”

They lock eyes, a tension in the air, mistrust perhaps. Yennefer feels Sabrina’s grip on her arm and knows that the other sorceress is earnest in her question, serious, purposeful. As always.

Yennefer’s gaze drops to the touch, willing Sabrina to loosen her hold. Then she looks up again and smiles. An affect, trained to perfection.

“I just told you. King Demavend hopes to settle the conflict over the Lormark in exchange for-”

“Why would you be running errands for a man who hates mages?”

_A man who hates mages because you abandoned his father to his fate_ lingers, unspoken.

They are standing at the edge of the throne room, small figures in a vast space. Bright light filters in through the large windows, betraying nothing of the cold that awaits outside. A snow storm delayed Yennefer’s arrival but she is here now, having travelled by carriage and horseback, more convenient than a portal, as strange as that may sound to those without the option. She could not be bothered. She can hardly be bothered to do anything these days.

“Perhaps I’m all out of coins,” she retorts with a raised eyebrow, her smile fading.

Everyone else has left. Why did Sabrina hold her back, what does _she_ want? They never saw eye to eye. This is futile, an exercise in diplomacy.

Sabrina seems to think so as well. A shadow descends over her beautiful features and it is tinged with something- something not dissimilar to disappointment. Yennefer has to fight the urge to laugh, envy and hurt rising to the surface unbidden and unwelcome. She prefers to keep the memories of their time in Aretuza locked away, she prefers to-

“If that’s all,” she as good as spits and turns on her heel, determined to make a dramatic exit. How dare she, how dare Sabrina judge her, how dare she languish at this court and then demand to know why she did not do the same in Aedirn, how dare she question her attempt to make amends with Virfuril’s son, yes, it is her duty as advisor to King Henselt but-

Yennefer throws the great winged doors open with the might of her anger and a flick of the hand, still somewhat subdued, still somewhat strangled, rooted in something more, in something deeper, in feeling inadequate in the presence of _her_.

The sound of the clanging doors rings out in the silence, echoing to the high ceilings.

She does not look back.

.

“Shh, don’t move.”

Yennefer shifts uncomfortably, her eyes drifting open, her sight swimming with tears. What happened? Did she-? There was a ritual and then- a spell, she can still hear the whispered words that fell from her lips, but-

“I said don’t move,” an admonishment, more forceful this time but still friendly. And familiar.

Yennefer blinks. Again and again.

“Sa-Sabrina?”

Confusion clouds her head. What would she be doing... here, wherever this is. Yennefer tries to raise herself but feels that someone is gently pushing her down, down, and then she feels that she is falling and even as she sinks into darkness, she thinks that there are fingers on her, on her arm, a touch, reassuring and kind and warm.

.

When they meet again, years have gone by. They have never talked about the incident, never even mentioned it. Sabrina must know that Yennefer would have done the same for her. Or so Yennefer would like to believe. Those who emerged from Aretuza, those who ascended and those who did not, will always be there for each other in times of need and distress. Or so Yennefer would like to believe.

Their eyes meet in a tavern in the noble part of a town without import, both on a mission, both merely passing through. A moment of recognition, a nod. Yennefer turns back to her meal but her mind is suddenly occupied, wondering about the look on Sabrina’s face, the weariness in the slump of her shoulders, showing little of the steely resolve she has come to know. She wonders, wonders whether it has something to do with the rumors swirling about the King of Kaedwen, a difficult man becoming ever more difficult, the older he grows. They are not friends, her and Sabrina, but she cannot shake the discomfort at seeing her like this, cannot help but want to reach out and inquire about it and- well. Perhaps that is all that is needed.

Yennefer plays with the spoon in her hand, whispering an incantation, reaching beyond, into herself, prodding, thinking:

_You should try the soup._

There is no reply at first but she raises her eyes and knows that Sabrina heard her when she sees her laughing, almost, looking in her direction while shaking her head, apologetically gesturing at the mutton chops on her plate.

_It’s not that bad._

Yennefer keeps her gaze trained on her and the voice in her mind light, tentative, ready to be rejected.

_Then why the long face?_

Sabrina grows serious but not as serious as Yennefer might have suspected. Perhaps she is tired. Perhaps that is all. She looks away.

After a moment of silence, a moment that makes Yennefer think she overstepped, Sabrina rises from her seat and heads for the stairs, throwing a backwards glance over her shoulder.

_Let’s talk upstairs._

.

They choose Sabrina’s room and there is a moment when Yennefer enters and thinks: This is it. This is what Aretuza prepared us for. Royal chambers in gilded palaces, luxurious beddings, the dulcet tones of troubadours and traitors, political scheming, pedestrian plots behind a façade of wealth and beauty and grandeur, even a humble room such as this in a modest establishment such as a tavern being decked out in all the comforts a travel through these lands might ever afford.

How hollow. How false.

And yet, who would choose to sleep on the street instead. _Or a pigsty_ , a part of Yennefer’s darkest corner of her mind supplies. Indeed. Who would. Fools and dreamers. There is something to this life. Not much but- what else is there?

Sabrina sighs and reclines on the bed, slipping out of her shoes, laced too tightly, massaging her swollen feet.

They do not have to pretend around each other. Not anymore. Decades of isolation see to that.

“You always had good taste,” Yennefer comments as she wanders around the room, taking in the earthen color scheme, turquoise and terracotta, reminiscent of the sea and the land and the place that shaped them into who they are. Exquisite tapestry. A fine work of conjuring.

Sabrina makes an amused sound.

“That might be the nicest thing you have ever said to me.”

Yennefer turns around and answers matter-of-factly, though with a twinkle in her eye:

“Oh, I’m sure it is.”

They regard each other openly, not quite friendly, not quite hostile, but with an understanding that they did not possess when they were younger and eager to impress.

Yennefer breaks the tension when she moves to sit at the secretary while Sabrina settles on the bed, sidelong, her head supported by her hand, her elbow sinking into the soft duvet. Her blonde hair is still impeccably tugged into its tail, no strand out of place.

“So, how are you faring?” Yennefer ventures, admittedly not particularly interested in the answer. But she feels like indulging in pleasantries tonight.

“Better than you I hope, if the rumors are true.”

Yennefer bristles slightly. Not long ago, such a reply would have offended her, made her think that Sabrina wanted to put her down. Now she hears the concern in her voice, as well-masked as it is. She wonders what changed. Is the sentiment novel or did she fail to detect it before? There may be truth to both.

“And what would those be?” she asks, unable to keep a defensive edge from coloring her tone.

“That you have fallen out of favour in the Four Kingdoms. That you have reneged on the Brotherhood and gone underground, offering your services to anyone who would have them.”

There it is again, the anger, the hurt, the spite, surging, making Yennefer restless and tense. She flexes her fingers, buries them in her lap, vying for control. A deep breath. A smile, cheerful, bitter.

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“I’m not judging.”

A simple statement, said without fanfare, without warning, without any particular kind of emphasis. And still, some coil in Yennefer unwinds and makes her feel alert, the way an animal might if they become aware just how vulnerable they are. She wants to say _You’re not?_ , disbelieving, she wants to say _Bullshit!_ , disbelieving in another way. Her lips remain sealed. She does not trust herself to say anything.

It is Sabrina who looks at her calmly, Sabrina who blinks, Sabrina who slides off the bed with elegance and ease to open a window against the oppressive heat. Summer has come early this year. The Southern weather does not become either of them, daughters of the North.

Sabrina leans on the window frame, closing her eyes, letting a light breeze brush past her. Yennefer watches, the movements, the stillness, she herself relaxing with every moment of silence, every question she dreads dying as a thought, every justification she could give filed away for later use. Finally, she says:

“You didn’t answer my question. How are things at court?”

Sabrina takes a breath, opens her eyes, fixes them on the night outside and the lanterns dotting dimly glowing orbs across the deep blue sleep of the town. That is, at least, what Yennefer imagines her to see, orange light, here and there, flickering to keep the terrors of the unknown at bay. Sabrina does not stir and she does not look at her when she speaks after a long moment of contemplation.

“If you had to live it all over again, would you still make the same choices?”

Yennefer huffs in surprise, a pained grin spreading across her face. _Uhm, no?_ What kind of question is that? A silly one. Her eyebrows perform their own shape of incredulity, her forehead creased with confusion over what to respond.

“You must be joking.”

“Why?”

“I would cut deeper.”

Said with force. Said with all seriousness. Sabrina turns to look at her. The way her eyes narrow suggests that she is taking note of the darkness in Yennefer’s posture, of her utter lack of humor. She respects it by saying no more on the subject. They all know of the scars. They all saw Yennefer’s wrists at one point or another, partnered during the lessons and exercises and tests.

Yennefer cannot tell whether Sabrina understands but she tells herself that she does not care. The other sorceress - not friend, no, she will not call her that - crosses the room and before Yennefer knows it, she is in front of her, bending down, burying a hand in the dark curls at the nape of her neck, bringing their lips together in a kiss so deeply raw and tender, it robs Yennefer of all presence of mind. Her reaction is instinctual when Sabrina moves to withdraw; grabbing her robes, drawing her back in, opening up her soft mouth by sliding her tongue in between, passing that entrance without meeting resistance, meshing and sucking and moaning their way to some kind of oblivion, short-lived as it may be. Trading breaths and spit they fumble with their clothes and stumble to the bed, overcome with something, something profound and yet entirely of this very moment in time. Yennefer never dreamed of this. She never thought about it. She only knows that she needs it, now, and if she were able to think, it would occur to her that Sabrina might have sensed her quest for validation and even though she cannot think, it does occur to her in some fogged part of conscience that Sabrina might be doing this because she _knows_ that Yennefer needs it but then again, when has either of them ever been selfless. No, it must be- and yes, Yennefer thinks this while trailing small kisses over Sabrina’s jawline and onto her throat and chest and breast, laid bare, heavy, heaving, perfect, of course, so very perfect- her hand sweaty over taut skin, her fingers in pursuit of a destination further down- if the way Sabrina archs to her touch means anything, it means that _she_ may need this just as much if not more and if Yennefer were able to think, it would occur to her that Sabrina asked about her choices because she wants to leave her post as well, because she is surrounded by men, by intrigue, by boredom, because she can never be herself or be with someone she can be herself with, because- Yennefer knows this because she _knows_ but she cannot think when she is moving like this, ignited, drawing cries of abandon, stifling them with her mouth, reaching down between her own legs because she is wet and in want of release, another hand arriving before hers, making her gasp.

They do this for a while, surrendering themselves to the slick heat of pleasure as it clings to them with the air of a summer night in spring, humid and warm. When they finally collapse, blood rushing in their ears, exhaustion weighing down their limbs, entangled as they are with the sheets and each other, the sound of their panting signals a return to reality. Outside, on the streets, someone is plucking and strumming a lute to woo some lover, lending their situation a peculiar note, not quite sweet, not quite bitter, but enough to make tears well in Yennefer’s eyes, pooling in the corners without yet threatening to spill. She drapes an arm over her face and pretends to go to sleep.

After a while, she has to pretend no more.

.

When she comes to again, dawn is breaking. The torches on the walls have gone out; now, the room is lit by candles, softly shimmering in the early dust of morn. Yennefer groans and stretches her muscles, rolling over to find the spot beside her empty. A familiar sensation but she does not have to search for long. Sabrina is standing in front of a mirror. Brighter candles are floating around her naked form while she is tailoring different clothes to herself in the illusion of the reflection. Getting ready to leave. Getting ready to work.

Yennefer lazily runs her fingers through her tousled hair and wonders how she could ever have thought that Sabrina would leave her assignment. She would not. Best of the class, duty-bound until the inevitable end, her head on a spike or a statue in her name. Surely Sabrina must know that as well. Although she gives no indication that she has noticed her companion awaking, she suddenly speaks, as if to herself.

“My mother used to call me fat.”

She examines herself in the mirror from different angles, providing a view to Yennefer that underlines the absurdity of her statement. When there is no immediate reply, she continues:

“‘Don’t be like those peasant girls,’ she used to say, ‘you have to look like you can bear ten children, not like you already have.’”

Yennefer snorts and mutters, utterly unimpressed:

“Crazy old bat.”

She knows that Sabrina hails from a family of merchants, she remembers one of those evenings at Aretuza when the girls all sat around and played games, revealing parts of themselves. No doubt her mother had higher aspirations, hoping to marry her off into lower nobility. Yennefer thinks back to one of those evenings, tries to remember what Sabrina said, how they spoke to each other, if they spoke at all. She knows that she looked at her, in awe, in twisted jealousy, she knows that it was after the cave, after the lightning had shot from her arms, pure chaos where Sabrina had mastered control so early, so well. 

“No one ever thought I would do anything other than stand around and be pretty,” Sabrina concludes, little emotion in her voice, except for some pride, perhaps. They have made it. They are advisors to kings and queens. Well, not quite. She is. Yennefer sighs. The will to please. The will to be pleased. What does it matter.

“There’s a power in beauty. It opens doors,” she points out, piling the pillows to settle into a comfortable upright position. Sabrina turns around and regards her. Her chosen dress is starting to materialize around her body, making it seem so effortless, the magic, the balance, the sacrifice. She raises an eyebrow and walks to the secretary to pull on a number of bracelets and jewellery.

“What good is that if you can’t walk through them? I have my opinions but I know how it works. A man won’t act unless he thinks it’s his own idea.”

“And I have heard that you’re very good at making men think just that.”

Yennefer is aware of the rumours, the tales of a sorceress slamming her fist on the table in council meetings, the stories of a king puppeteered by his loins. They are, no doubt, exaggerated.

“It’s not real.”

Sabrina halts in her motions, gingerly brushing against the bracelets. She does not explain further. But Yennefer knows what she means, she knows it all too well, feels it in her bones. Is this real? Would any of this be real if she had not done what she did, if she did not now look the way she does? Would they have ever-?

Their lives are premised on a lie. The lie that anything can happen. That anything can be true. Except for one thing.

Life itself.

.

They are less distant than before, somehow, between them a newfound understanding. They are more distant than before, somehow, in outward appearances. Yennefer sometimes thinks of Sabrina, of the moment she left the room, immaculate, her shoulders set straight, her face a picture of cool confidence. She thinks of the way she looked at her one last time, her hand hovering near the door handle, a smile ghosting her lips, a wink waiting in her eyes.

She remembers and she wonders whether she was wrong. 

They may not be friends but they know each other in some way, in a way that matters. A way that she may even come to dream about.

If only there was not-

if only they were not-

.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry.”


End file.
